Solipsism
by T3h Toby-Chan
Summary: The Major ponders over her reflection: Being the perfect woman comes with a price.


**A/N**: Ugh! This is what happens when I write while I'm not in the 'zone'. I think this fic had more potential than what I put in to it. I might do a rewrite. In the meantime, enjoy the Major's angst.

This is based upon the first movie. Contains some foreshadowing for 'The Puppet Master'.

Solipsism

It was morning. Again. The same still morning as the day before. The same sun rose and warmed the same patch of floor through the same curtain as it had done many times before, glittering against the spots of dust that hung lazily in the air, against the background hum of the outside world, and the click and tone of a tiny alarm clock.

_'It's my time to wake up'_

My time.

Mine.

Me.

She rolled over and stretched her fingers over her face, letting herself rise out of instinct

_(Programming)_

to awaken. The soft sheet slid from her bare shoulder. She rarely bothered to dress herself before sleeping. Didn't see a purpose in it. Didn't see the point in hiding her body

_(Machine)_

from nobody. Nobody.

Nobody but 'me'.

'Myself.'

Major Kusanagi Motoko.

That was her name.

It was hers. Her property. Her posession. Of the few things she took pride in, it was her title. It was nothing beautiful, or feminine, or especially powerful.

But it was her own.

She walked to the sink, leaning over to turn the squeaky handle, and collect a puddle of water in her cupped palms. The cold beads hit her face, the temperature tingling against her false skin. She pulled more from the stream, and traced against her neck, avoiding the open circuits in the back. The cold tickle- the sensation- it was real. This water was real.

Just as real as her hands holding it, and her face feeling it.

Wasn't it?

She snapped her head back, flinging a small firework spray of water droplets into the sunlight, against the mirror. Her image stared back at her- wide eyed, beads hanging from the soggy ends of her cropped black hair.

'Me'.

"Myself'.

'I'.

What is... 'I'?

Such words in the mind are repeated and reused- so many times that they completely lose meaning. Words like, "Me",

_(Existence)_

"You"

_(The universe)_

"Life"

_(God)_

"Human".

_(Me...)_

Many people lost meaning in them easily. Yet in the back of her mind- what mind was hers- they repeated themselves even more. They lost and regained meaning, and lost it again over and over, in constant cycles of hopeless wondering. They were never really in her direct waking mind- they kept nagging way in the backdrop- questions, spewing, random thoughts. Never in the foreground- never in vocalization, or slipping into direct linking. Just there- nagging.

Existing.

They existed.

_She_ existed.

The thoughts silently existing in her mind told her that the woman gazing back at her in the mirror existed. That woman was '_Me_'. That face, that body. They were _hers_. But were they?

She traced her finger absently against her collarbone, up against her neck, and against the line of her chin, still dripping with water. Just as absently, she traced her lips and felt the breath escaping.

Did she really need to breathe?

She bit down. The false skin pinched. It hurt. It was there.

Pain signified existance.

It was still just as false. That pain wasn't true. Her fingers weren't flesh. Her nerves weren't human. All just a great imitation. A perfect simulation of humanity. The delicate pores of her skin, the rise and fall of her shoulders in habit of breathing- they weren't human- just the creation of another.

Everything about her body was meant to imitate that of a real woman. Everything was copied almost perfectly, down to the last detail.

Almost... but not quite.

Would it matter, perhaps, if she didn't have the body of a woman? Was this "Me" that she always questioned herself about... so necesarrily this body? Did the outer shell make such a difference that the designers would place such significance on creating this feminine perfection? Her face- she'd gotten so used to it- did it really matter at all what it looked like? Was that _her_? Were those haunting blue eyes really anything more than lenses to capture an image into a cyber brain?

She looked at herself again. Once over, then twice. She gripped her fingers into tight fists. Her nails dug into her palms, and the cords of her muscles tensed, rippling the skin of her forearms. There was so much strength there. It was solid, and real- the metal skeleton that fit perfectly- stood upright and withstood all pressures- every whip and sinew of her artificial muscles, that threaded and fleshed over her curves, all hugged in by the cover of strong porcelain skin. Every proportion was painstakingly perfect- the product of feverish design. She had it all- agile long legs, the meticulously curved torso, slender waist and wide hips- up to her smoothed shoulders and model face. She was the perfect woman.

But it wasn't her.

She'd been envied for the longest time, by the other women on the police force. They giggled, and shook their heads as she passed them, tittering about diets and surgery, and working out more, everyone always comparing themselves to the Major, wanting her as their ultimate goal. They often jealously gossiped about her immodesty, rolling their eyes at what they called blatant exhibitionism. Was her invisibility skin really necessary? Did she really feel comfortable prancing about nearly naked in front of her male partners? Could she really be that vain about her perfection? Certainly she simply loved her body too much.

But that wasn't it at all.

Perhaps, if she considered that body to be her own at all- perhaps if she had worked like so many others to care for herself- to keep that work a thing of beauty- perhaps if it really had been a gift to her from God, rather than just the practical creation of a mechanic- then she may have considered more modesty. Perhaps if she believed that her body was something important- something sacred and special- something to truly be proud of- she may have hidden it like most other sane people do.

But it wasn't. This body- this brain, even- it was all the property of another. This 'me' she had been told she was- was nothing special to her. As much as she was glared at with envy by women, and leered at with lust by men, it was all a great big nothing to her.

She had nothing.

Nothing but her name.

Her name.

Even that might be false.

She had seen people who had been deceived before. She had seen skilled hackers able to make false memories- for others, for themselves- creating cyber fantasy worlds for their own bliss. They lost everything. They had no true identity- they were merely the personality of someone else's creation.

She always stopped her train of thought right there. Before she could think any further. Before she could hurt herself.

She knew if she had those kinds of thoughts, she would break something.

Sometimes, she thought, she already was broken.

She patted a white hand towel against her face, soaking up what was left of her wake-up splash. That had refreshed her from her sleep. It was odd. Her body got tired, got achey, got dirty- all of these little nuances that humans really have that were nothing more than an inconvenience, but ones she needed to have added in her creation.

If she didn't, she would have probably gone completely mad.

She stared blankly at the reflection, and set her hand against her chest. She moved it, feeling the skin lazily, pondering, unremarkably, about how real and soft her skin felt. She paused, cupping her hand against her breast, pushing lightly.

They were just there for decoration; just another simple accessory, there to make her more of a perfect woman, just the same as her hair, or her eyelashes, or her fingernails. Not necessary, but pretty. Yet for some reason, it bothered her. They were just there to make her look like something perfect; there was no other reason. That was why they'd been adjusted for convenience. They were made so she wouldn't be bothered as she carried out her athletic tasks; she had an advantage- not needing the complicated undergarments of other women. She pressed the skin, and wondered what it would be like to have a real body- bouncing breasts and all.

She cursed herself for it. It was a sick, perverse thought. Having the complete body didn't matter.

And yet-...

_(Human)_

She lowered her hands, sliding them along her abdomen, slowly hugging her stomach. She bit her lip and gripped the skin, reminding herself that it was empty-

Absolutely empty. There was only the imitation of the outer shell of the perfect woman- inside, there was nothing. There was no hope for becoming whole.

No child can be grown from a metal womb.

Perhaps if she had had her human body- such thoughts wouldn't have plagued her. Even if she _could_ have children, she wouldn't have wanted to. Just the thought- the knowledge that she never could- brought to her a deep immesurable sense of lonliness, and utter worthlessness.

She was not a creation of God. She was a creation of man. And that was how she paid for it.

She was tired, suddenly. She stepped back to her futon and curled upon the top, wrapping the sheet around her naked body. She squeezed her eyes shut and imagined silence.

Nothing.

Alone.

She imagined what the world would be like if she were not existent. She imagined, backwardly, casually, what it would be like if she were the only being in existence.

_(God)_

She prayed silently for answers. Even with her knowledge of science and her origins that demanded eminent atheism, she felt a presence within herself- within some deeper consciousness she'd never known before. Everyone feels it sometimes, but now, she was feeling it in greater reality. Like a tiny voice- a miniscule being- living, listening to her thoughts- always there.

Spying.

She curled tighter, gripping the cloth of the sheet, trying to place her finger on what that being was; what that thing was inside the mind of that foreign idea that was herself.

Her 'Me'.

"I".

She inhaled and silently beseeched.

"Please, God. If you're there, let me know..."

(Fin)


End file.
